A Narrow Escape

Thump! Thump! Crash!

Rock gives way beneath Henry’s sword and clatters to the ground around him, dusting his clothes and hair with rubble. Brushing debris from his tunic and leather vest, Henry steps forward into the vast cavern beyond the shattered rock.

“Good work, Ry-Ry,” a voice calls from behind him. A shadow falls into step behind Henry, flanked by two others. 

Henry flinches at the nickname, “Don’t call me that,” he mutters to the shadow. It— like its owner— is slender and wispy; dressed in a man’s clothes but unable to hide the slight curve just above the hips, the way the shirt falls over its wiry form, revealing the hint of a bosom beneath.

“Why not, Ry-Ry?” Alice teases. She flashes a grin at Henry before they descend into the cave together. The two shadows behind them, Willowshire and Hickleby, exchange anxious glances before following.

Inside the cave, Henry takes the lead, with his enchanted sword. It casts its warm glow on the narrow passageway carved out of rock, giving the dim space an eerie feel. Boots grind against rock as the group makes their way further into the abyss. They walk onward in silence, with nary a remark from Alice, until at last the passage opens up to a vaulting chamber. Henry pushes onward, looking around with his torch until Alice yanks at his shirtsleeve.

“Wha-?” Henry barely has time to wonder what Alice is up to when he steps forward. With a shuddering crack, the rock beneath his boot gives way, falling off a steep ledge into a bottomless chasm.

“Careful there, Ry-Ry. Can’t be losing my metals master mid-hunt? At least wait until we’re back in Graystall to die. Easier to replace you then,” Alice tuts with a smirk. Behind them, Willowshire and Hickleby snicker to themselves. At a withering glare from Henry, they shrink back.

Henry shoves out of Alice’s grip and stumbles to the wall away from the ledge. Alice doesn’t bother to wait before moving on. Wordlessly, Henry begins to tug his pack’s straps back into place on his shoulder when he hears a sound like boots on rock behind him. 

He whirls to face whatever might be following them in this dark passage, only to find empty shadows glaring from the corners of the cave. Shaking his head, Henry follows the others, already well past him, into the gloom.

— — —

They wander through the cavern like this; Henry and Alice taking the lead with their torches while Willowshire and Hickleby trail behind, muttering to themselves.

After what feels like hours of walking, Alice thrusts an arm in front of Henry. They are at the end of a passageway, staring down an alcove behind a narrow arch. She inches forward along the stones while Henry and the others watch. Feeling along the path with her boot, she reaches a space where the floor dips and presses her weight onto it. The walls shudder as a chest lowers into the small chamber. Finally! Henry grins to himself, once this job is over, he’ll be able to breathe a bit, get back on his feet. 

Just as Alice starts forward, a clapping echoes from behind them.

“And Miremont had me thinking this was going to be a challenge,” an all too familiar voice taunts. Henry finds himself looking up at a man with features resembling a weasel. His stringy hair is covered by a brown hat, fringe adorning one side; his newly polished boots shine despite the cave’s lack of lighting.

Alice whirls, “Lark,” she hisses, “here to steal what you can’t manage on your own? 

Lark’s grin is all teeth. “Alice, my love, why bother with the heavy lifting when you’re more than capable to do it for me?” Two burly men stride out from behind Lark, flanking him in the alcove’s entryway.

There is no talk, no notice, just chaos.

Alice, her back turned to Lark, spins— whipping a glowing throwing star at him. At the same time, Lark’s minions each pull out a long, slender sword. Hickleby draws one of his own and Willowshire has already freed his revolvers from the holsters at his waist. A flip of the guns and a flick from his fingers and gunfire erupts in the small, echoing chamber.

Lark, still standing at the aclove’s entrance, catches Alice’s glowing star with a gloved hand. “Oh come now, Alice, we don't have to fight. We both know who will win this one anyway,” he tosses a casual glance about the room as he drawls on.

Being the hothead she is, Alice takes the bait, charging after Lark with more fervor— and glowing stars. The two of them spar in flashes of light and gleams of silver.

As he draws his own blade, Henry notices Hickleby brawling with one of Lark’s men and rushes to help him. He tightens his grip on the sword, aiming to attack the brute from behind when he spins on Henry. Despite his size, Lark’s minion is surprisingly quick; parrying Henry’s attack and delivering a blow to Hickleby with the hilt of his sword. 

With a sickening thud, Hickleby hits the ground— and stays there. Henry has no time to think, focusing on matching the minion, blow for blow.

Across the small space, Alice duels with Lark. She’s pinned him to the wall, about to finish him off, when his palms ignite, sending a blast of blue fire flaring at Alice. Henry hears her mutter a curse and something about Lark being a “dirty mongrel, fighting with magic”. 

Lark’s men won’t relent, disarming Willowshire, forcing him to fight dagger against sword. Henry tries to block Willowshire from his thoughts as he focuses on the minion in front of him. They clash swords again, but Henry can’t overpower him. 

Using his blade as leverage, the minion pushes Henry into the wall; air fleeing his lungs as he makes impact with the unyielding rock. The minion’s blade inches forward, about to cut into Henry, when Henry gives one final shove with his sword and uses the moment to duck, rolling beneath the minion’s parted legs. 

The diversion isn’t going to be long. Henry spins, now behind the brute, and knocks him into the wall. It isn’t as effective a he’d hoped; the minion staggers for a second before righting himself. When Henry’s blade comes down, his is there to meet it. They are exchanging jabs until Henry hears a cry from behind him. 

Alice and Lark are locked in hand-to-hand combat, her throwing stars lodged in rock around the room. Lark has just launched a blue flame at her, burning through her trousers and searing the skin beneath before she can snuff it out. 

While Alice’s attention is divided, Lark delivers a vicious kick to her ribs. Rock comes up to meet her and her eyes flutter as she struggles to remain conscious. 

Though Henry glances at Alice for only a second, it is enough. The minion he’s facing off against attacks— slicing Henry’s upper thigh and going for another next. Sensing what is about to happen, Henry rolls to the side, the blade piercing his shoulder just above his heart. 

The minion growls in frustration, but decides Henry is injured enough not to be a threat and leaves him pinned to the rock by the sword.

Lark has moved to the chest in the center of the room. With a wolfish grin, he kicks it open and pulls from it a hefty bag, no doubt filled with the jewels Henry’s crew had been sent to find. Lark straps it to his belt and strolls leisurely through the alcove. 

Only Willowshire remains, clutching his dagger in front of the archway. Lark raises a brow, flame igniting in his palm. Henry manages a muffled cry before the blue flame flies across the room, sailing straight for Willowshire. 

Willowshire rolls to the ground to avoid the flame at the last second. Henry watches Lark, but the man doesn’t seem to be peeved that he missed. Instead, he smiles triumphantly, stepping over Hickleby carelessly. His men follow him and they are gone into the inky cavern.

Henry, lying on the dirt floor huffing, glances around at the party. Alice is staggering to her feet, teeth gritted. Across the chamber, Willowshire is examining a motionless Hickleby. 

Swearing, Alice limps to the entrance of the alcove where Lark and his minions are nowhere to be found.

Instead of the defeated look Henry expects to see across Alice’s features, she turns with the beginnings of a grin spreading over her face. 

“Come on! There’s still one more option left,” Alice shouts.

“And what is that?” Willowshire asks, exasperated.

“The Rusty Spade.”

— — —

Outside the cavern, the sun blazes down on the blank landscape. There are a few foothills and the promise of mountains in the distance, but nothing else. The nearest outpost is miles away; across golden sand and cracked rock, nestled between the Twin Rivers lies Graystall. 

Henry watches Alice pull up a worn piece of fabric over her face as they emerge. Struggling against the weight of Hickleby, whom he and Willowshire carried out of the cave, Henry attempts to pull up his own mask. 

The North winds stir sand and dirt, covering each of them in grime as they make their way to the four masses that await them a few yards to the left. Three are a light shade of brown, almost lost in the landscape; the biggest one, however, gleams dark as obsidian. 

As the group nears, the passive rumbling of their breath fades, and frosty blue eyes open sharply.

Alice slings her pack onto her dragon, Morvat. He regards her curiously while she rummages through her things. Of all the dragons’ features, his are the most striking. The foursome all have blue eyes, though his are made all the more bright by his dark scales.

“Henry,” she says with a glance over her shoulder, “rope Pythym to you and Cira for the ride to Graystall.” 

Henry nods and begins to work knots of ropes around the Pythym, Hickleby’s dragon and the runt of the group. Once they are secure, he checks the ones tied to his own dragon, Cira, the only girl of the pack.

In a matter of minutes they are ready. Willowshire atop his dragon, Nievrom, clutching Hickleby; Alice and Henry mounted on their dragons. 

Three dragons turn blue eyes to Morvat at the head of the formation. Alice tips her brown hat low on her brow and kicks her boots in their stirrups. The inky dragon takes off, followed soon by the other three. 

The ride to Graystall is uneventful. Willowshire disappears upon landing with Hickleby, who has begun to stir, leaving Alice and Henry and four dragons. Alice gives her signal to Morvat and the foursome takes off to find food in the afternoon heat. 

Henry shields his eyes as he watches them soaring into the distance, stumbling when Alice thwacks the back of his head with her hand. 

“Cut the dragon watching, Ry-Ry. They, unlike Lark and his gang, will still be here tomorrow,” she says, stomping off down Graystall’s main road, kicking dust up as she goes. 

Reluctantly, Henry jogs after her, slowing when they reach an imposing building made of weathered wood and bits of stone. Hanging from a rusty bar is a sign reading The Rusty Spade in blocky, uneven letters.

———

Lark sits inside slumped over the wooden bar. His men sit in an inky corner of the saloon, drinking away their coin and laughing raucously. The barkeep eyes them suspiciously. Lark himself is sipping quietly at his drink, though the more he drinks, the looser his lips become.

Soon, he and his companions are all sitting at the bar, laughter bubbling from them with ease. 

“I told you there’d be nothing to worry about,” Lark says, words tumbling from his mouth in a drunken slur, “Alice is a little wench playing dress-up for the Dragon Guild. She’s not a real threat,” he continues, and sits back with the ease of a man who no longer has to work, his arms folded behind his head and hat tipped back over his eyes.

SLAM.

Wood knocks against wood, causing Lark to jump in his seat, his hat falling gracelessly to the floor. Lark bends to pick it up and, through his stringy strands of hair, sees Alice planted in front of the saloon doorway. Her dark shape is silhouetted by the light from outside, her leather overcoat billows behind her, caught in the afternoon breeze.

Lark sobers immediately. He would be almost scared had it not been for Alice’s lackey, Higgins or something, following behind her. 

The lad is trailing Alice, so far back that when the slatted doors begin to swing shut, they hit him square in the nose. Laughter gurgles up in Lark’s throat. It is only Alice’s deathly expression that keeps him from outright laughing.  

With a flick of her hands, a gun appears in Alice’s hand, leveled at Lark. He does his best to remain expressionless while staring at the blackness of the barrel.

“Outside. Now.”

And with that, Alice spins on her heel, lackey following her like a dog out the door.

Lark looks to his two men— only to find one. Muttering a curse, he stomps out of the saloon, his last man not far behind.

———

Henry watches wide-eyed as Alice loads her pistol. A duel. She’s forcing Lark into a duel. Henry knows Alice, an excellent fighter and her marksmanship is no exception. But Henry also knows Lark, a dirty Mageía and a cheat. With a cacophonous clatter, Lark emerges with one of his minions, eyes glinting beneath his hat.

Now lined up, Alice and Lark stand back-to-back. It’s ten paces and to draw, then luck will determine the victor. Henry feels his gut twist with horror.

Ten.

Nine.

What will happen if Alice loses? Henry wonders. He’s a decent fighter but without Alice, it’s two to one. He glances up at them, now a few paces ahead.

Five.

Four.

Alice looks straight forward. Henry thinks he sees a flicker of movement on her face, but when he turns to her, there is only a stoic stare at the land ahead.

Three.

Two.

Lark turns early, grinning. Henry can’t find the air to scream. Lark’s pistol shines wickedly as it fires a shot straight for Alice.

Crack. The sound of gunfire stings Henry’s ears. He looks over to where Alice stands— only to find she isn’t there. The bullet that had been sailing for her head now glides through empty air, only tearing through a hat instead of Alice.

Now on the ground, Alice jumps to her feet. Lark’s triumphant expression has melted to one of horror. 

“That was my best hat,” Alice says in mock-reprimand. 

Neither Lark nor Alice wait any longer. Lark bolts first, Alice giving chase. Henry runs after Lark’s henchman who is running after Alice running after Lark. The four of them dart through the busy afternoon street, dodging pedestrians and carriages.

Lark attempts to escape Alice by climbing atop a moving carriage. Alice only grins and climbs on behind him, drawing her slim double swords. Caught in amazement, Henry can only watch as they duel furiously. 

His reverie doesn’t last long. Lark’s minion is sprinting to a carriage next to Alice and Lark’s own. Henry ducks around horses, drawing the ire of several cabbies in the process. The two carriages take a wide right onto a street along the river; Henry has just enough time to jump onto the luggage rack on the back.

Up above, Alice has kicked Lark in the side and is now standing over him, blades catching the light with an evil glare. Just as Alice prepares her final blow, Lark’s minion has jumped from Henry’s carriage over to Alice’s. He lands with a heavy thump and pins Alice to the carriage top, her head dangling precariously over its edge.

There is no time. Pushing aside his panic, Henry leaps over, barely clearing the jump to the other vehicle. His eyes are only on Lark’s minion and Alice’s slight form beneath. He doesn’t see Lark, who has regained composure. Before Henry can reach Alice, Lark’s fist is connecting with his jaw. 

Henry stumbles against the pain. He manages to dodge the flame Lark launches at him, but his legs are unsteady beneath him. In his attempt to regain good footing, Henry watches his opponent. Lark is getting ready to charge, his blue flames now one with his sword, licking their way up the steel. Henry doesn’t think, he just waits until the last moment… and rolls to his left. Unfortunately, his blade slips from his grasp, clattering to the street below. Henry lets out a curse.

Lark’s minion looks up briefly from his struggle with Alice, it’s enough for her to kick out from under him. With nary a second glance, she tosses her blade to Henry who is facing off against Lark. Henry grins to himself.

Back-to-back, Alice and Henry fight as one. Passing daggers, throwing stars, and each of Alice’s swords around, they are unbeatable. 

Sweat stains Lark’s usually impeccable attire and exhaustion clouds his gaze. Henry and Alice press their advantage, delivering a deep gash to his thigh. He lets out a cry of rage and falls to his knees. Lark’s minion runs to his aid but the damage is done, Alice is already cutting the bag of jewels loose from its spot on his belt.

Lark’s face contorts in a mixture of pain and anger. Henry is still trying to process what’s just happened when Alice pulls him by the sleeve, salutes to Lark, and pulls the two of them off the carriage, plummeting toward victory— and the shallows of the river.

— — —

Lark peers cautiously over the edge, half unconscious— but nothing awaits him. They are gone.